


Star-Crossed

by grayimperia



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 08:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13830075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayimperia/pseuds/grayimperia
Summary: And Ouma realizes he has so many realities worth of words to choose from when Momota arrives. And he also supposes, in something oddly close to happiness—peace—that he has time to say them all.-Ouma, the afterlife, and the choices he didn't make.





	Star-Crossed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idaate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idaate/gifts).



> A birthday present for a very good friend.
> 
> Major V3 spoilers.

Ouma isn’t cold, but, still, he pulls the well worn jacket closer around his thin shoulders. The sleeves bunch around his elbows and get in the way when he tries to reach out into the strange void before him. 

He knows exactly where he is—there hadn’t been confusion for a second when he had awoken after the pain. Pain, and then release, and then his eyes were blinking open to take in the shifting world around him. Ouma could only snort at seeing his afterlife dotted every which way with stars and cosmos as if the jacket spilling off of his shoulders had leaked and stained the world. 

He wasn’t cold, but, still, Ouma had slipped his thin arms through the coat sleeves. 

The world shifts every so often—furniture and street signs, fragmented rooms and brief strips of landscapes from his memories so casually stitched into space. As it were, Ouma settles easily onto the couch from the AV room when it presented itself along with half of its accompanying projection screen. 

The other half fades into nothing, but Ouma cares little to imagine it back into existence. He cares even less when the screen had seemed to move closer, beckoning him to reach out to it. 

And he does, and millions of realities flares up at his fingertips, each ready and waiting for his eyes only. 

There’s only one reality he cares for, but it has yet to reach its fruition. Ouma hums and absently swings his legs back and forth. This space is a waiting room, and Ouma picks a reality to entertain himself with a flick of his wrist. 

-

Momota crumples to the floor when Ouma’s elbow hits his stomach. For a second he worries the antidote will fall to the ground and shatter to doom them both, but he juggles it well enough in his shaking hands as he prances a few feet back from Harukawa shrieking at the window. 

She levels more threats at him as if descriptions of a possible death would cause him to abandon life now. Momota’s on his hands and knees and failing to catch his breath. His hoarse coughing is far more interesting and important than anything Harukawa could say, and Ouma listens to its silent plea in his brief moment of debate. 

Momota should live. He really should. But Ouma wants to live just a little more. 

The antidote is heavy in his hand and then so much lighter when he downs it all in one gulp. Harukawa goes dead quiet at the action. Momota keeps coughing. “Whew!” Ouma says. “I feel sooo much better now. Anyway, thanks for bringing this for me, Harukawa-chan!”

“No…” she says, her previous threats collapsing in on themselves. “No, no, no—you—”

“Harumaki,” Momota says, finally looking up to realize his doom. “Just—it’s fine. Get out of here.”

“Wha—”

“I said leave,” he says. “Just leave, and don’t come back here. I’ll—I’ll figure something out. It’ll all be okay—just get out of here and let me handle it.”

Ouma raises his eyebrows. Nothing about the situation in front of him is funny, but still he can’t resist the questions needling at him. “Oh?”

Harukawa recognizes his presence again and starts to snap, “You—you go to hell—”

“Harumaki,” Momota says again. “Leave.” He turns to her then. “Please.”

She bites her lip, pausing for a moment before physically ripping herself away from the window. Ouma hears her steps pitter-pattering away from the window, and when she’s far enough away that he can speak without her returning to offer more banal threats, he says, “Sorry about all this, Momota-chan, but I need to live, you know?”

Momota’s eyes rake over him before he sighs. “Go fuck yourself. Not for wanting to live, but just… go fuck yourself.”

“Fair enough,” Ouma says. “But still, I won’t interfere—I did my best to live, so you should, too.” 

Momota grits his teeth as he tries to pull himself to his feet. “I plan to.” 

He lets out a startled shout as his legs give out from under him again, the poison playing havoc with his already weakened body. Ouma feels his permanent smile fall off his face as Momota fights to keep standing. The drops of the antidote still clinging to his teeth taste rotten. “You’re…” Ouma says. “You’re not boring. You know what, Momota-chan? I’m rooting for you.”

Momota snorts as he claws at the wall to keep himself up right, and Ouma can see the drops of sweat beading along his forehead at the exertion of such a small action. “That…” it’s obvious he doesn’t need the distraction of talking, but they both know there’s no way he can’t not respond. “That code for you’re gonna watch me fucking squirm?”

Hugging the wall, he staggers with achingly slow steps towards the exit of the room. He seems content to pass by Ouma without another word. Ouma says, “Don’t be silly,” and darts forward to swing one of Momota’s arms over his shoulder. 

Momota looks at him with wild wide eyes. “The hell are you—”

“Where to, Momota-chan?” Ouma asks. Momota stares at him incredulously for a long moment, and Ouma prods, “C’mon, Momota-chan. Are you really dumb enough to think another antidote will fall out of the sky if you just wait around long enough? I thought you said you were going to do your best to live?”

He frowns, but from the set of his jaw, Ouma recognizes easily enough that Momota knows exactly what’s happening. Still, now is no time to drop appearances. “Of course I am,” he says. “And fuck you—don’t call me an idiot.”

“I didn’t call you an idiot,” Ouma says as they stagger out of the bathroom together. “I just implied that you were one. But still,” he bats his eyelashes at him. “Sorry for hurting your feelings—forgive me?”

Momota rolls his eyes. “When this is over, I’ll think about it.”

Momota has no plan and the situation is hopeless. Those are the facts, but still, Ouma hums and follows the dying boy’s every curse laden request for help—it makes the antidote taste just a touch less sour. He keeps playing his role, too—teasing and taunting and acting like they’ll still be playing their games tomorrow—because Ouma doesn’t think he could ever make himself cruel enough to show him pity. 

Momota eventually lets him go, and Ouma sits on the floor with his knees close to his chest. Even with Monokuma’s executions seared into his memory, there’s still something distinctly horrible about watching the boy in front of him slowly die. Momota collapses to the ground again, leaning his head back against a wall and squeezing his eyes shut as he lets out a stream of curses. Ouma watches him and says more for himself, “don’t give up, Momota-chan. It’s not over yet.”

“You’re…” Momota lets out a humorless laugh. “You’re such a fucking liar.”

Ouma’s eyes flicker to the blood staining his chin and the front of his T-shirt. “I am, but when have you cared about what’s actually true? If you believe in something, you make it happen, right? Isn’t that the Momota-chan way?”

Momota looks at him through half lidded eyes. “Are you taunting or encouraging me?”

Ouma rests his chin on his knees. “I’m doing whichever you need. Reality’s always more interesting when it’s multiple choice.”

Momota rolls his eyes. “Do me a fucking favor—don’t screw with Shuuichi or Harumaki when you tell them what happened. You can go off about your bullshit now—hell knows I can’t stop you—but don’t do it when they’re around. They don’t need that.”

“If you think that they don’t want any lies about this,” Ouma says. “Then you really are an idiot.”

“I don’t think that,” Momota practically spits. “But hell if I’m gonna have them discover my fucking body and have you lie to their faces about what happened.”

Ouma’s eyes flicker over him. Momota’s hands are bunched into fists now to try and control their spasms. He looks paler and the sweat on his face has intensified. It looks like death has decided to steal his composure first before his life. “Then I won’t lie,” Ouma says.

Momota opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure how to respond to Ouma’s compliance. “Good,” he settles on, even as his frustration seeps into his words. “Good—just. Good.”

“And,” Ouma says. “You know this is all my fault, right? I trapped you here, I stole the antidote, I called you a dumb idiot while you tried to figure out a way to live. Sooo, you should blame me.”

Momota furrows his brow, some of his anger fading in favor of confusion. “What are you—”

“I’m just saying what happened,” he says. “It was all me, and you and Harukawa-chan couldn’t do a single thing to stop my evil plans.” 

“Why,” Momota regards him warily. “Why are you talking like that?”

The emotion drops out of his voice. “I’m just saying the truth, right? I’m the only one to blame for this. After all,” he places a finger to his lips. “I’m the bad guy.”

Momota looks at him before snorting. “Ouma, if you keep trying to comfort me, I’m gonna crawl over there and kick your teeth in.”

Ouma puffs out his cheeks. “Rude—and I was doing no such thing. I’m just a supreme leader of evil leading evil. You know, you must think an awful lot of yourself to think I would bother with trying to help someone like you.”

“Hey, Ouma,” Momota says. “I know it’s your stupid thing, but stop lying to me. I’m literally fucking dying, and I don’t want the last thing I hear to be you—I don’t fucking know—going on about whatever the hell you are.”

“You’re not listening to me?”

“I _never_ listen to you.”

Ouma huffs as he pulls himself to his feet and walks the few steps between them. He towers over Momota for a second before simply sitting crossed legged next to him. “Fine—have it your way. What do you want the last thing you hear to be?”

The question catches him off guard, and Momota clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut as he thinks. Ouma knows it’s a cruel question to ask, but he doesn’t know what he can do for him that wouldn’t be cruel at this point. 

The spasms are getting worse, and Momota’s hands are trembling at his sides even as his knuckles turn white in his attempts to keep them still. He smells like blood and the sick scent of death, and Ouma whines, “Ugh, you’re so sweaty,” as he picks up one of Momota’s large hand in both of his small ones. Momota looks at him in absolute bewilderment but doesn’t pull away as Ouma plays with his fingers. “Anyway,” he trills. “What do you want to hear, Momota-chan? Ooh, do you want me to sing you a song?”

Momota keeps staring at him. “No,” he says eventually. His hand shifts in Ouma’s grip to hold on tightly. “No—don’t want the last thing I hear to be your shitty singing, either.”

Ouma sticks his tongue out at him. Momota’s clammy, twitching hand isn’t comfortable in the slightest, but Ouma isn’t about to pull away the other boy’s last hold on life. 

Ouma keeps rambling to fill the silence and drown out the sound of Momota’s increasingly pained breathes. He responds to him less and less, and when he goes completely silent, Ouma talks a while longer to the empty room. Part of him still thinks that Momota should live, and he needs a moment to lie to himself that that could still be a reality.

In the morning, Harukawa will be executed, and he thinks there will be more blood on his hands as he squeezes Momota’s.

-

Ouma’s eyes flicker over the image before him—a selfish him and a corpse. He doesn’t care to see how it ends, though part of him absently predicts it involves Harukawa’s hands around his throat before her execution comes for her. The him in the frozen image is too scared to even turn his head, and Ouma’s fingers push the shard away as easily as it had swam into focus before him. 

In his own reality—his puppet, his plaything, his partner—Momota, is still in the midst of a fitful sleep inside an Exisal. Time isn’t quite on his side in the void around him, and Ouma can only sigh as another shimmer catches his eye.

-

It’s not one of Ouma’s prouder moments, clinging on to Momota’s arm and gasping out the last breaths of his agony. He distantly hears Momota cursing and feels his large hand press up hard against the newly opened wound in his back. 

Removing the arrow from his arm had hurt like hell, but the one in his back is something almost indescribable. He tells himself that if the pain was even a fraction less, he wouldn’t be digging his nails someone else’s arm, listening to their half whispered rushed words of comfort. If he could, Ouma tells himself he would snap at Momota to shut up as he mumbles, “You’re okay, you’re okay. I got you—fuck—you’re still okay, I’m right here.”

Ouma’s breathing is ragged, and he needs another moment to get his composure back before he can trust himself to speak. As much as he hates it, Momota’s arms are grounding and his steady voice provides a metronome for him to gather his thoughts. He’d still push him away the first chance he got, but that’s for less practical reasons he can’t afford anymore. 

Momota keeps babbling, and Ouma distantly realizes it’s mostly just for himself at this point. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere, I’ve got you—I’ve got you, I… I,” the arms holding him up seem to falter just so. “I can’t do this. Fuck—I cannot do this.”

Ouma forces himself to shift and look up at Momota’s suddenly pale face. “Momota-chan—”

“I can’t—I need to,” Momota’s hands scramble for purchase for a moment before pushing Ouma away. “We can’t fucking do this—this is—”

He keeps muttering to himself, running his bloody hand through his hair, something wild and faraway shining in his eyes all at once. Without Momota’s support, Ouma barely stays on his feet. “Momota-chan,” he says again.

“What was I fucking thinking agreeing to this?” Momota says. “I can’t fucking do this. I can’t. This isn’t right—this isn’t—”

“Momota-chan,” Ouma snaps, just loud enough to make Momota pause in his rambling. “I don’t care about what’s right or wrong or what you can or can’t do. You,” he takes an unsteady step towards him and grabs back onto Momota’s arm to stop himself from falling. “You just said you’re not leaving, and you are not going to lie to me.”

Momota’s eyes flicker down to him. He swallows and his hands are gentler this time—making sure Ouma’s still securely on his feet—when he pushes him away again. 

Momota studies him, and Ouma hates the way his trembling speaks so much more than anything he could say. It says he’s weak, he’s pathetic, he’s fragile—Momota says, “I—I can’t kill you.”

Ouma hisses, “If you don’t—”

“I know you saved my life and shit,” Momota says. “And I know… everything’s fucked either way, but I…” he trails off, and Ouma decides that shame is not an expression he wears well. “I’m fucking sorry, Ou—”

Ouma’s hand jolts forward to dig his nails into Momota’s arm anew. “You’re not leaving,” he says again. “You are not abandoning me now.”

Momota doesn’t push him away this time. He curses under his breath, and for the time being, that’s that.

They go through the preparations with as few words as possible. Part of Ouma’s grateful for it because the pitying looks Momota keeps giving him whenever the pain causes him to falter make him wish his death would come sooner. Even in their other preparations, his eyes stray to the press—his death so nonchalantly sitting in the same room. Momota grows even more sympathetic when he catches him doing it. 

Momota lays his jacket down on the press and hesitates next to it for a long time. Attempting to goad him into what is effectively going to become a grave very shortly wouldn’t exactly be the smartest move, so Ouma lets the silence linger longer than he should. From the look on Momota’s face, it would almost seem like he’s the real victim here. But, of course, Ouma doesn’t think he’d ever call himself a victim either. So maybe there’s some truth to the wretched expression Momota has as he finally crawls onto the press.

“Whenever,” Momota says with a shaking sigh. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Ouma thinks it’s stupid that he’s the one saying that, but he doesn’t say anything. Momota’s eyes are squeezed closed. He doesn’t say anything either. 

His still hands are on the controls for the press and the camera. Ouma’s eyes flicker over Momota’s unmoving body and the words he had said to guilt him into lying there. Ouma thinks, do it, stop caring, stop hesitating, be evil. He says, “Get up.”

Momota cranes his neck up to look at him. “What—”

Ouma rolls his eyes as he descends the stairs, leaning onto the railing for support far more than he would like to admit to. “I know your brain doesn’t work, and obviously your nose doesn’t either from the way you smell, but I at least thought you had functioning ears.”

Momota sits up on his elbow, staring at him in shock. “Ouma, you…”

He goes quiet, and Ouma stays at the bottom of the steps, not trusting his legs to stay under him if he strays too far from the handrail’s support. Momota keeps watching him, and Ouma prods, “‘Ouma, me,’ yes I heard you. Is that it?” Ouma clicks his tongue and ignores the wheeze in his voice. “Geeze, Momota-chan, you were desperate to get away from me earlier—what’s the matter? Did you fall for me?” He laughs. “Realize you have a _crush_ on me?”

Momota lets out a deep breath as he sits up further. “Don’t—don’t fucking joke about that.”

Ouma shrugs. “Why not? Jokes are fun when they’re true, but if they’re impossible… they’re just harmless, you know?” He feels his focus beginning to slip away and squeezes his eyes shut. “So laugh, will you? Come on, Momota-chan, you’re killing me here. I mean, not literally anymore, but…”

His eyes are still shut and he only hears the sounds of Momota getting back onto his feet and padding over to him. Padding over in his stupid slippers, leaving his stupid jacket on the press, his stupid bloody breath suddenly flooding his senses when he gets too close. “Ouma—”

“Get out of my face,” Ouma says. “Your breath stinks.”

Momota stiffens as Ouma finally opens his tired eyes again. “You’re—you’re just letting me fucking… walk away?” 

Ouma looks over him. Momota’s poised over him as if reaching out to a wounded animal. Ouma studies the situation before him for a moment before he makes a decision and lets out a breathy laugh. “Of course I am,” he says. “You’re a pathetic coward and you lost your nerve, so you’re completely useless to me now. And I also really don’t feel like looking at your ugly face anymore.” He looks up at him through half lidded eyes. “Anymore stupid questions?”

“You’re,” Momota says, even Ouma’s barrage of insults not enough to knock him out of his state of shock. “Going to die.”

“That’s not a question,” Ouma says. 

Momota tears his gaze away from him and clenches and unclenches his fists a few times. “I—I can’t fucking leave you like this. It’s not right.”

“Killing me wasn’t right, leaving isn’t right,” Ouma drawls. “Geeze, Momota-chan, guessing games are no fun when you keep changing the answer. Why don’t you just tell me what’s ‘right?’”

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, and Ouma does his best to keep his gaze level even as the world starts to swim at the edges. Trying to restart the plan again now would probably be impossible—the start and emergency stop buttons would blur together too much. He also thinks letting Momota out of the press only to crush him in it would be a failure he would have trouble living down in his last few hours of life. 

Momota says, “I don’t know. But,” he lets out a deep breath, “if you’re giving me a choice, I really don’t want to fucking kill you.”

“How sweet.”

“Ouma—”

“How about we both get something we want,” Ouma says. “You get to not kill me—yay for you—and I get you to leave me alone—even more yay for me. You can turn off the alarm and barrier or take an Exisal—I have no preference so dealer’s choice.”

“Ouma,” Momota says, voice rising in volume. “Ouma, I know you hate me, but I’m not just going to walk away—”

“Then you want to stay and watch me die?” Ouma says. “Have to admit, I never pegged you that way, but you sure are full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?”

Momota shakes his head. “Shut up—you know that’s not it. Just,” he runs a hand through his hair. “Is there anything I can do to make you… more comfortable?”

Ouma raises his eyebrows incredulously. There are currently two intersecting Momotas in his blurred vision, both wearing twin expressions of concern that turn his stomach. “Momota-chan, what are you doing? I saved your life to give you a few more hours, and you’re spending it here, whining at me.” He scoffs. “What a waste of an antidote.”

“So you just,” he says. “Want me to go back to the others?”

“Why do you want me to tell you what to do?” Ouma snaps. The words burn in his throat. Everything in the world is burning. “Are you really too stupid to make any decisions yourself?” 

Momota frowns, furrowing his brow. He’s not getting angry—he’s trying to understand. Ouma wants to punch him in his stupid understanding face. “Fine, I’ll leave,” he says. “And I’ll tell everyone the truth about you—I’m not gonna let this be in vain, alright?” He reaches his hand forward and Ouma wants to laugh. “It’s a promise.”

The truth is Ouma knows that if he lets go of the rail he’ll fall to the ground. So he lies. “Well, you also promised you’d kill me, and I may be a liar but people who break their promises… aren’t they just the worst of the worst?”

Momota retracts his hand. “I’m still gonna do it. I fucking refuse to let this be for nothing—too many people have died, and I’m—I’m fucking drawing the line here.” He presses his fists together. “And maybe you don’t believe in me, but I promise I’m going to end this fucking killing game if it’s the last thing I do.”

Ouma blinks at him weakly. “I’m rooting for you, Momota-chan,” he says even as the other boy doesn’t hear him. 

Momota talks some more. Some of it’s about friendship or heroics or other things he has to know are lost on Ouma but he feels the need to tell him about anyway. Ouma watches him leave, and can see his bravado drain to nothing as he fiddles with the control panel to let him back out. 

When Momota leaves, he leaves the strength of his words behind, and Ouma can only think how guilty he looks as he shuffles out of the hanger alone. Ouma also thinks he left his coat behind. There’s no point in it now, but he still crawls over to what he knows was always meant to be his grave. 

Momota’s coat smells like blood. Ouma doesn’t know what else he was expecting. 

-

The Ouma in the image mirrors him in his last moments, bunching up Momota’s jacket around his shoulders for no real reason. He doesn’t like the comparison of himself with what was perhaps a version of him too selfless to actually accomplish anything. Ouma thinks that and then thinks that maybe that him was just a coward as he pushes it away. 

Martyr, coward, idiot—the words carry the exact same amount of appeal. In his reality, he can’t help but think that Momota is certainly putting on a show of being the latter. Ouma can see the sweat beading down his face as he casually wipes blood away from the corners of his mouth with the back of his once pristine sleeve. 

It won’t be long now. 

Part of him wonders if his Momota will keel over before he can reveal himself, and the others will have to pry open the Exisal to find the answer they want so desperately. 

But for the time being, Momota’s jacket is excellent at concealing bloodstains and even more excellent at illuminating the strange images before him. One more approaches, shining its light rather confidently across his face, and Ouma figures he can entertain himself with one more possible fate.

-

Ouma had assumed that Harukawa ran out of the hanger to grab the antidote when he locked the shutter again. He assumed Momota had the same assumption and that was why they both sat, staring at each other in a tentative ceasefire. 

At five minutes following her departure, Momota had grit his teeth and yanked the arrow out of his arm. 

At fifteen minutes, Ouma lets his eyes fall from the bathroom door to the arrow on the floor, the slight rolling it had done previously painting a halo of blood around it. Momota seems to have recovered as well as anyone could from such a procedure, and Ouma can’t help but reopen the wound. “Bet you wish that had gone through my head instead, huh, Momota-chan?”

The glare on Momota’s face had been set into his features for quite a while now, and his stony expression only shifts to let him roll his eyes. “You always this ungrateful to someone who saves your fucking life?”

“Can’t say,” Ouma replies. “But I’ll let you know when it happens.”

Momota narrows his eyes. He turns his head away, and it’s enough of a threat that he’ll go silent that Ouma needs to push things further. “But, c’mon, you love talking, and Harukawa-chan’s so slow, so answer my question. How did saving my life feel? Warm and fuzzy? Sting-y and poison-y? Of course, it wasn’t really _my_ life you cared about.”

Momota stays silent, but prodding him further would be akin to admitting that he was losing this battle. Ouma does his best not to fidget any more than usual or show too much excitement when Momota finally lets out a sigh. “It didn’t fucking matter that Harumaki was the one trying to kill you,” he says. “It coulda been fucking anyone, and I would have done the same shit. I’m not gonna let anyone just throw their life away.”

“Aww, didn’t know you cared,” Ouma says. His eyes slide towards the blood dripping from Momota’s coat sleeve and into a pretty puddle on the cold floor. “I did know you were a hypocrite, but still—my hero.”

Momota scowls as he self-consciously pulls his injured arm towards himself and away from Ouma’s gaze. “I didn’t want you to die—I don’t want anyone to fucking die. How in the hell does that make me a hypocrite?”

“Well,” Ouma says. “I wouldn’t consider myself the Ultimate Logician, but I would probably include myself in the ‘anyone’ you want to stop from keeling over.”

“You don’t get it. ‘Course, I’d be surprised if you did.” He shakes his head. “Can’t believe how naïve you are sometimes.”

Ouma feels his eyebrows almost involuntarily raise incredulously. “You know, Momota-chan, you keep saying that, and it keeps sounding stupid every time.”

Momota rolls his eyes again. “Call it whatever you want, but you really don’t get people, man. It is fucking funny how much me pointing that out bothers you, though—maybe you got a soul kicking around in there somewhere.”

The gravity of their situation—that they both sit, poisoned and slowly bleeding to death—seems to fall out of the atmosphere building between them. “I understand people just fine,” Ouma says. “It’s just hard to imagine more than one person being as stupid as you.”

Momota looks at him, and, to Ouma’s surprise furrows his brow as he curses to himself. “Fuck, there’s a word for this. Shit,” he presses a hand to his forehead. 

“Idiocy, incompetence, stupidity,” Ouma lists. “Being a moron, being an airhead, being—”

“Deflection!” Momota says with far too much triumph before thrusting a finger in Ouma’s direction. “You’re fucking deflecting.”

Ouma absently blames it on the poison turning his thoughts to mush that he doesn’t have an argument prepared. He falls on his old standby. “Am not.”

“Are too,” Momota dutifully responds, straightening his shoulders as if prepared to go to war over Ouma’s response.

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Am not!”

“Fucking hell, Ouma,” Momota says, still caught up in the strangely excited energy. “You’re deflecting right now!”

Ouma presses a finger to his chin. “Huh? What am I deflecting, Momota-chan?”

He throws his hands in the air. “How fucking upset it makes you that you can’t understand people!” Momota doesn’t seem to realize quite what he’s said as he collapses back against the wall supporting him. “At least, you don’t understand me, and that pisses you off.”

“Wow, Momota-chan,” Ouma says. “I see why you want to go to space now—your ego really needs all the extra room up there.”

“Dude, stop deflecting—I get it,” Momota says. 

Ouma puffs out his cheeks. “Geeze, Momota-chan, you were so proud of yourself for remembering that word, but I don’t think you know what it means at all. Because I’m not deflecting anything—I understand you perfectly. You,” he points back at him. “Are selfish.”

Momota snorts. “I saved your life. How the fuck does that—”

“You saved me,” Ouma says. “Not for me—as adorable and perfect as I may be—but for yourself. You said yourself it doesn’t matter who was shooting or being shot. You just want to stop a murder—finally be a hero.”

“That’s not what happened,” Momota growls. 

“That’s theory one,” he says. “Because you know I do nothing with my time other than think about my dear Momota-chan.”

Momota frowns. “If there’s a part two to this, then I don’t want to hear—”

“Theory two,” Ouma says with a grin. “Is that you’d rather be torn to pieces than see anyone else hurt because you can’t handle it. Honestly,” his arm with the arrow still jutting out of it screams in pain when he reaches up to fold his hands behind his head, but Ouma manages to bear his practiced nonchalance nonetheless. “Both seem like you’re kinda selfish to me—never asking what the others want, letting them stew in their own guilt, killing both of us _and_ Harumaki-chan.”

“We’re not gonna die,” Momota says. 

“Ooh, deflection,” Ouma says. “Good thing I already covered hypocrite.”

Momota insists, “No one’s dying. Harumaki’s gonna bring an antidote, and we’re gonna be fine.” 

“Then,” Ouma says. “Why are we sitting here playing get-to-know-you games instead of ‘being fine?’”

“She’s not just gonna fucking leave us here.”

“I didn’t say that,” Ouma says. “I’m just asking why your assassin-chan hasn’t returned to save us.”

Momota shrugs. “Maybe she got held up by something.”

“Like a bear attack?”

Momota frowns for a moment before catching Ouma’s meaning. “Monokuma’s not allowed to interfere with murders.”

“Monokuma doesn’t play too much by his own rules these days,” Ouma says back. 

“Okay, do you _want_ to fucking die here or something?” Momota snaps. “Hell, you probably do—keeps the game going or whatever the fu—”

“Letting my death continue the killing game,” Ouma says plainly. “Well, I’d say I’d rather die than let that happen, but that wouldn’t make much sense, huh? Still,” he clicks his tongue. “I’m a bit disappointed—I know my Momota-chan so well and he doesn’t know me at all.”

Momota stares hard at him for a moment. “You want me to actually believe any of that?”

“Momota-chan believes what he believes,” Ouma answers blandly. “Sooo what do you believe about me? That I’m lying?”

“Is that supposed to be a trick question?” 

“Is that supposed to be deflection?”

Momota groans as he runs a hand over his face. “I’m really fucking regretting bringing up that word.”

“I’m not!” Ouma says. “It’s very useful when talking to someone like you.”

“‘Someone like me,’” Momota says. “You know, I mentioned it because it’s what fucking happens every five seconds talking to _you_.”

Ouma hums. “Nope—definitely better for you. Not me—I’m not your type.”

“And what the absolute fuck is my type?” Momota asks. 

“Someone,” Ouma says, eyes drifting up to the ceiling in thought. “Someone who hates themselves.”

Momota seems caught off guard for perhaps the first time since Harukawa burst into the room to kill them both. He splutters, “W-What? What the hell—I do _not_ fucking hate myself. I’m Momota Kaito, Lu—”

“You’re you,” Ouma says. “And the you without the titles and the adoring fans—that you is pretty pathetic, huh?”

Momota narrows his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

“No chance—you challenged me, and now your punishment is one full psycho-analysis coming right up,” Ouma says. “Because isn’t it funny how you tell all these lies about how great you are? Or how your talent isn’t real and you know you’ll never actually get to space since you’re, you know, dying and all? And how you don’t want to let any of your friends actually know the real you because then they’ll realize how insecure and—”

“I said shut up!” Momota snaps. He’s breathing heavily, and there’s sweat beading down his face—though Ouma notes he can only attribute so much of that to his anger without paying the poison in his veins its due. “I don’t—” he fidgets, unsure where to go. “You don’t fucking know anything.”

“I know you also hate the truth,” Ouma says. “But then again, you are dying, so you should believe whatever you want. That’s what Momota-chan does best, after all!” 

Momota gives him a withering look. He goes silent again, and Ouma wonders if he pushed too far—lost his only source of entertainment—comfort—before his death. He thinks it’s all fine—pushing people away is what he does best, and he might as well die as he lived. 

Ouma pulls his arms closer around himself. The poison is making him sweat even as he shivers, and only a cursory glance informs him Momota is suffering the same condition. With Momota silent, there’s little do other than contemplate their hopelessness. He pushes his finger through his blood that’s dripped onto the ground to paint his macabre plans. He could lower the barrier, and they could go for the antidote themselves to run into either Harukawa or whatever is holding her up. Ouma knows both would likely kill him, and the game will continue. If they stay, they’ll both slowly die, and the game will continue. 

If he gets Momota to start talking to him again, they’ll both slowly die, and the game will continue. 

Momota shifts again, and Ouma’s eyes stray towards him. They stay silent and Ouma stays fixed on him and option three comes to fruition when Momota says, “Quit staring at me,” after a few moments. 

“Nah,” Ouma says. “You’re the most interesting thing in this room, soooo,” he widens his eyes. “Think I’ll stare, oh, until I die.”

“Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true,” Ouma says. “Of course, we both already know how you feel about the tru—”

Momota jerks to life as he snaps back at him. “Fine—I have fucking issues—does it really piss you off that much that I’m not heartless like you?”

Ouma quirks an eyebrow. “Moi? Heartless? Why, you know that’s only because I already gave my heart to you.”

“Admit it pisses you off—you get fucking furious that we’re not all robots just acting on logic and calculations,” Momota says. 

Ouma hums. “Kiiboy’s probably rolling over in his grave.”

“Kiibo’s not dead.”

“We don’t know that.”

Momota gives him an exasperated look as Ouma merely shrugs in response. “I’m right,” he says finally. “It makes you angry because… because you’re too fucking scared to feel anything.”

“Oh?” Ouma says, tilting his head. “Is that so? So in this fantasy am I jealous or—”

“You are,” he says. “But mostly you’re a coward. You always whine about me believing in shit because you’re too afraid to believe in anything.”

“And I’m jealous of you?” 

“‘Course you are,” Momota says, grinning for the first time that night. “Hell, I bet if you could, you’d switch places with me in a heart beat.”

Ouma smirks, seeing his own counter. “And if I did, where would I be? Oh? On the floor of the hanger dying? Thanks but no thanks—see, I’ve already got that, sooo what else do you have?”

Momota opens his mouth to shout back. Then he closes it. Then, “I think you already know that—what I have that you don’t.”

Ouma’s expression fades back into a blank canvas. “You know I lied earlier, right?” he says, pointedly tearing his gaze away from him. “You’re actually _the_ most boring thing in this room.”

“Sorry I hurt your feelings, man,” Momota says, sounding only half sincere. “Guess you do have a heart or something. You should use it more.”

Ouma could tell him that was never part of his plan, but Momota invents his own answer, saying, “Guess you’d have to get over your fear first—that’s your real enemy.”

Ouma has to resists sneering as he responds. “That what you say to your ‘sidekicks?’ You know,” he hums. “You seem so concerned about me, so why was I never one of your little followers?”

Momota looks at him hard for a moment. “‘Cause you didn’t need it. You—” he cuts himself off abruptly, and he lets out a sigh as he finishes. “You didn’t need it, ‘cause you don’t hate yourself.”

Ouma hums again. “No, I don’t,” he says, and thinks ‘but I could have.’

The next time he speaks, Ouma makes a joke, and it lands well enough in the oddly cleared air. Of course, he also realized neither of them are exactly thinking straight as they seem to freeze and burn at the same time. 

When it seems like his ability to walk will fade at any moment, Ouma pushes himself to his feet. He says, “Hey, Momota-chan—need you to write something for me.”

Momota seems confused but staggers to stand as well. “Write something…?”

“Write,” Ouma says, limping over to his small stash of supplies. “Write ‘dead bodies don’t come in.’”

He hears Momota gasp behind him. “What?”

“We’re gonna to the bathroom, tape this sign to the door, die,” Ouma says, “and hope the others are smart enough not to come in and start a trial. And,” he shuffles back to Momota, thrusting a pen and piece of paper into his hands. “They’re gonna believe it if you write it.”

Momota’s expression is sober as he takes them from him. 

Ouma doesn’t exactly know why he waits for him to finish, but he does. He doesn’t know a lot of things as they stagger their last steps together to the bathroom, and he shuts the door behind them.

-

In his reality, Ouma hears the only sounds that would make him put down the image before him. He doesn’t know what the him in that reality is doing. He doesn’t know how he achieved whatever was happening so quickly.

Ouma hears a rocket ship approaching him and hops to his feet to wander through the void to meet it. 

Each choice—which choice—every choice.

Ouma hums as he skips to greet the roaring engines. He has so many realities worth of words to choose from at Momota’s arrival. And he also supposes, in something oddly close to happiness—peace—that he has time to say them all.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Kiki! I'll admit this isn't the most birthday-ish fic in the world, haha, but I hope you still enjoy it!


End file.
